I Should Kill You, You Know
by Door Is Ajar
Summary: (Old) What happens when America finds England wounded in the middle of a forest while the Revolutionary War is occurring? The perfect chance to kill the man and win the war is right in front of him, but will he do it? Or will his thoughts get in the way?


When he decided to leave his troops behind, he wasn't expecting to find his enemy so close. America needed alone time. Time away from the other soldiers who always talked about the war and their freedom, nothing else. However, he eventually was lost in thought, thinking of the same subjects the other members of his army were cheering and celebrating about. That was when he came across the enemy. The one person in the whole word he would rather NOT see. England was leaning against a tree in the middle of the forest America was exploring, the night not allowing too much to be viewable.

America almost jumped out of his skin at discovering the man. Why the heck was he around and near their camp? Then again, he didn't know where he was himself... But he couldn't have walked too far, right? He was readying himself to run the other direction when he realized that his enemy wasn't moving. It didn't even seem his eyes were open.

The blue-coated nation slowly and quietly made his way towards the slightly older man, wanting to get a closer look at what the heck he was doing. It wasn't until he was a mere foot away that he heard himself gasp, now frozen in place.

What he saw was a pool of blood below England's feet, and he was now stepping in the large mass himself. The red-coated man was gripping his left side with his right hand with as much strength as he could muster, a grimace of pain consuming his face. He released jagged, uneven breathes; and then he coughed, a small portion of blood shooting out and onto the ground from his mouth.

This was his chance! America could kill England right now, take his independence! The war could end right now! But... A stronger thought blocked all of those ideas, made him want to gag at the thought. How could he shoot and kill the man who raised him? Took him in under his wing while he was already having difficulties with money.

So... What would he do now? He was sure the others in his team weren't coming to find him. He couldn't hear them or see smoke from a fire, so he was far enough away. Either that or they put out the fire to sleep the rest of the night away. America had no idea what his next move should be, and why should he? You can't just kill someone, let alone someone who's taken care of you your whole life!

That was when he heard a small groan with something of a cry escape the English man's now closed mouth, his green eyes opening to a blurry world. America could see just how tense the man's body got at the sight of him, how his eyes seemed to shoot open as big as they were willing to go in their half-lidded state.

"Who... Who are... Oh, God..." the bloody man began to speak before pain stopped him in his tracks. America couldn't believe this, though! How could he not tell... That it was his old colony right in front of him?

England shut his eyes tight as a wave of pain seemed to engulf his entire body. The blue-coat was noticeable, telling him easily an enemy wasn't even a foot away. But features like his face weren't coming out too clear. All he saw was a blurry mess of colors, not detailing what he saw. And now he only saw the inside of his eyelids. He successfully attempted to open his eyes, craving to know when his death would come.

He let out a sigh before struggling to speak again. "Who... are you? I... I can't see good..." What did it matter if the bad guy knew he couldn't see well? It would either sentence him to death for his weakness or grant him a small time period to live longer. The blood from the wound to his left would kill him anyway, so he really had nothing to lose.

But America didn't see it that way. He only felt mixed emotions continue to run through his mind. Yes, there was a reason England didn't know America was the enemy, the one he was afraid of. But, in the same sense, he now knew the blood loss or something else was causing England to have blurred vision.

Before he realized it, he was taking a step back, wishing he never came across this. He didn't want to see England reduced to something like this. And he definitely couldn't bring him back to his camp for first aid.

He took one more step back, obviously not too noticeable to the British man. He seemed to have a trance going through his head, not halting in telling him what he saw with not real. England wasn't a foot away. England wasn't barely gripping onto life. England wasn't _bleeding all over the forest floor.  
><em>  
>"H-Hello? Maybe... Maybe I'm just imagining things..." England spoke to himself, looking upward at the trees. Anything to remove the vision of the blue-coat from his mind.<p>

Wait, did England just reduce him standing there as something fake? There... Then there should be nothing to be afraid of if he stepped forward to speak to the man.

And that was what he did. He took back the two steps he made, walking towards England. And then he placed a few more into the previously rained-on ground.

He heard England give another groan, making him halt altogether. But then the man slid down the tree, sitting on the ground and laying his head against the wood of the tree. He wasn't prepared for this. No, there was no way America could be prepared to possibly watch England die, not knowing how or why or who did something to him.

He began walking again. Five steps seemed like miles before America squatted to be eye-level with England.

"E-England..." America spoke, but his mind wasn't ready, stuttering as a result.

He willed his right eye open, staring dead into America's own. "A...America?" he managed to loudly whisper. His eyes were playing tricks on his, that was all there was to it. His greatest enemy in the entire world was NOT sitting in front of him. It was slightly easier to believe with his vision blurred and swirling like it was.

Until he returned his question, that is. "Yeah..." What else could he say? Would it seem logical to ask questions concerning his well-being? "Are you... Um... hurt?" Maybe not, but he did anyway.

England stared at the boy for what seemed like forever when- in reality- it was only ten seconds. "You're bleeding... Do you hurt anywhere, England?" America's brain seemed to run a little faster, letting thoughts come out as he thought of them. He shouldn't be asking or stating these things, though. He was the _enemy_. The _bad guy_. He couldn't help England.

But he waited, and patiently at that. He realized England was at a total loss for words, unable to comprehend how any of this was possible. His next statement seemed to establish that as he let out a small sign, speaking softly, "This isn't real... There's... There is no way this is real... My mind is going to make me go insane..."

"I'm not fake. And if you want any kind of help, you should tell me what hurts and what happened!" America would have punched the man if he didn't care for the fact that England was going to die if he did nothing.

England lifted his head from the tree and opened both his eyes half-way, which was as much as his body seemed able to take at the moment. He struggled to breath, leaving his mouth ajar for the precious air to enter. "How... How am I supposed to know my mind isn't playing tricks on me? Prove..." he closed his eyes, taking in a shaky breath. "God... You know what... Just... Just kill me, okay?" The pain seemed too evident to miss as he laid his dirty, mud covered head back against the tree.

"What! What are- How do you think I could just _kill_ you!" America screamed, not waiting for another word to pass through the other man's mouth.

"I'm going to... to die anyway. Doing it now would be a favor, if you ask me..." He seemed as if he was close to falling into unconsciousness, but America was having none of that.

"Come on, England! Uh, Um... Just tell me where it hurts, okay? Yeah, I'll prove to you that I'm not some mind trick, alright?" He was losing it. If he couldn't get England to cooperate, he was literally going to go insane.

He looked hesitant after staring back at America, but moved his right hand away after a few seconds, hissing at the movement. "H-Here. I-I don't know for sure what they did, though..."

America moved closer, watching as the blood continued its path down to the already crimson red colored ground. He roughly placed his hand to the right side of the wound as if he was trying to move it to see better. Stupid brat...

"F(word)! D-D(word), s-stop!" England yelled, louder than he thought his throat could produce in such a state.

America quickly retreated his hand, now looking at England with his head thrown back and a grimace littering his face. "Sorry..." the American apologized, sadness unhesitatingly filling his features.

"I-It's quite alright..." he swallowed here, trying to restrain from yelling anymore or placing his hand over the wound. It wasn't helping that his vision seemed worse after that small touch. "But now I know you're real, at least. But... Why, America? You... Could kill me now and win the war, you know..."

He contemplated that. Of course! Who wouldn't? But killing England wouldn't seem right. It would never seem right. Heck, he didn't know if he could even punch the guy if they came face to face in a real battle.

He would not let England know that reason, though. That would show weakness. "I wanna kill ya' myself. If not, this war wouldn't seem like a fair win to me..." he dragged on, removing a smirk he had somehow grown onto his face and replacing it with a serious frown. "How many... attacked you? Were you alone?"

It was quite sudden. The questions made England already forget the answer to the question he asked himself.

"Ten... And I was alone..." How he wanted to forget it, though. "Now, could you just... I'm sorry... try again? I think I have something shoved in my side..." He was hesitant, that was for sure. But that was pretty normal if you knew there would be pain.

"Y-Yeah. Just... Tell me when to stop, 'kay?" America asked. He didn't want to hurt England; but if he had something stuck, it should be removed. He couldn't bring him back to his camp, so he would have to figure out what to do after looking at it first.

"A-Alright..." He lowered his head, placing it in his right hand. The blood seemed to of dried in the autumn night, not allowing it to smudge completely over his forehead.

The blue-coat placed his hand around the wound, just now realizing how big it really was, covering right below his heart to his hip. "Did they cut you with something first?" America asked after his initial view.

"Yeah... I think they shoved in a broken piece of a rod of metal afterwards, so you know what it is..." Just the thought seemed to make him worry further at what would come.

Nodding his head, America looked closely. Truth be told, he saw the broken piece of metal. It was no thicker than a pinky, but it went all the way through. If it was daytime, he wouldn't have had difficulty finding it.

He wrapped one hand around the imbedded object, readying himself to pull it out. "England..." he started.

"Just do it already. Yank it out as hard as you can." America could just feel the nervousness England was emitting.

Staring back down at the metal, he took a deep breath, pulling the rod out. It was stuck pretty well, but with enough force it exited all the way through his body and out, saturated in blood.

"F(word)! Oh f(word)ing God!" He began panting, attempting to calm his shaky body as he gripped his head with his fingers. "F(word)..." he now barely spoke, too tired to talk louder.

"You alright?" America asked. He threw the metal to a nearby tree, never wanting to see it again. It was instinct to ask, but of course he knew England wasn't alright. It isn't a pleasant feeling to have something ripped out of your body.

England toppled over to the right, now gripping his side again. His eyes were shut, but his face seemed to have lost some of the grimace he had so extremely splashed all over his face. However, his breathing wasn't becoming less loud, and he continued panting like a dog.

"I-I'm fine... Oh God...Ugh..." he rolled over to his back as if doing so would help him relax more or ebb the pain away. He was too scared to move his left arm in the chance of irritating the cut, so it remained limp by his side.

"You're not. Stop lying," America spoke. The British mad didn't move, figuring the other would have _something_ to say.

"Just kill me," England spoke, sounding almost as if he was on the verge of tears, if not already.

"I already told you no!" the American shouted back not a second after hearing England.

"God... Oh..." He brought his body to the side again, retreating his legs to come closer to his body.

"Did they hurt you anywhere else?" America's voice had dimmed some, bringing back the voice that actually sounded serious.

"Yeah... In... M-My stomach..." At this America rolled the man to his back, and England retracted his legs away from himself, America finally noticing another rod, but not as long as the one previously in his side if it seemed if he was able to lie on his back.

"D(word), England!" America gritted his teeth at the sight, knowing the blood would start flowing once he took the piece out.

"Go ahead, I know you're... God... Gonna do it anyway," England spoke. The pain of it sitting in his abdomen was enough to make any man go mad, but his spoken pleas to the creator above seemed to calm him some in knowing he was not yet dead, not yet losing his grasp on the surroundings.

"Alright..." He seemed unwilling, but America gripped the rod, noticing it was slightly thicker although not as long, and yanked it out without any more trouble than the last. At least the easy removal should be a good sign.

The screamed cursing didn't follow. He was too weak from blood loss to do so. "God... Oh, f(word)ing God... Too much... Oh, God, too much..." His words were constricted as he began crying, the tears flowing freely down his face. "God... Ugh..."

America threw the second rod away near the other, returning his sight to England as he watched the man turn to his side and bring his legs back in. His efforts- no matter what- would not stop or remove any pain he felt. He would need real medical attention. At least because he was a nation he couldn't die as easily.

Sure, the pain was still there. How he hated that it didn't feel any less because he was a country. But America was glad anyway that his death would not come from some rods. But then... His face grew pale at the thought. It was soldiers from his army that did this to him, nonetheless.

"C-Come on, England, what do you need? Help, what? Don't tell me they got you anywhere else now..." America's thoughts started to blend, so he threw them all out, not wanting to lose one before he would state it.

"No, they only stabbed me... t-twice... Oh, God, I think I'm gonna be freaking sick..." America made it worse. Yes, if only he thought further. There had to be something else than pulling the rods out himself, right? Or was that the best thing? Either way, America could only feel guilt steadily rise.

"O-Okay, what do you need help with? O-Oh, wait! I got it!" A light seemed to brighten in his mind, and he opened his coat, taking out a bottle. It was some kind of pain killer. Oh, gosh, he wished he had thought of it earlier. Better late than never, though.

"Here! England! T-Take these!" He unscrewed the cap and poured quite a bunch into his hand.

"N-No... I told you... I think I'm gonna be sick, America..." They sure looked good, however bad they may taste or if they had no taste. Just the notion of what they could do made him almost give in to taking them.

America was at a loss for words, leaving his mouth open and wanting so desperately to claw at something that would give him an answer. "Just take them! I have more than just these few!" he shouted finally, shoving the pills into England's direction to show that he did, in fact, have more than what was in his hand.

"I don't-"

"Just shut up!" America cut him off with an angry and irritated scream. "I know you are the enemy and that I should just kill you! I know you are hurt! And I know that you are _not_, in _any_ way, okay! So just f(word)ing shut the h(word) up, and take these before I shove them down your already hoarse throat!"

There, that should get him to understand. At least America hoped so. That is, until he thoroughly thought of what he said. He practically admitted he did care for England. He was always cared for by this man. He was given food- however bad it tasted- and shelter. And then he was given simple 'want' items, such as toy soldiers and suits. And now that he was grown up, he still looked at England like an older brother.

And he just yelled at his older brother like he had always had more control over him.

"If… If you want to do me a favor… Keep your voice down… My head is… going to split open otherwise," the man curled into a ball and bleeding spoke. "But… I'm sorry… I'm being a real bad patient for… for someone who should be shot right now…"

His words didn't seem to fully sink into America at first. Like he didn't believe England could apologize like that. He just… stared at the man. With his mouth open slightly ajar in totally disbelief.

He was going to fix this man up. No matter how many times the Brit cursed foul names at him. And then he would kick his butt and win the war.


End file.
